Jesus Wept

Long and wavy black hair cascades
his haggard-fierce Judean face–
the quintessence of sympathetic love–
piercing dark brown eyes sympathize,
scrutinizing a dark emaciated thin-tight skeletal boy,
his singe-mottled tufts of thinning hair, splotch-pied,
a mangy skein of craniate patchwork;
embossed ridge-jutting sebaceous welts,
crust-scabby, lacerated ebony skin, viscous,
pocked with illimitable needle pricks–
scar tissue from dilapidated hypodermic derricks
drilling for hallucinogenic nebulae;
his bruised and sunken, amber-streaked indigo eyes;
his swollen jowls framing jagged blood-creased teeth.

Baptizing tears gently fall upon the wasted child,
healing, cleansing, an ethereal renaissance
as the sympathetic joiner adjoins together
diaphanous, color-veined, stained glass wings
to the laughing, rejuvenated child
who giddily flies toward sunset meadows
of kaleidoscopic butterfly-tickled wildflowers,
hovering above silver serpentine streams,
silently disclosing phantasmagoric dreams.

The grieving carpenter confides to his gentle mother,
“Each pious soul who silently witnessed this suicide
is just as guilty of murder.”

Rusty Taylor
January 2016


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